


Scarlet

by Vermillion Jay (krolium)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krolium/pseuds/Vermillion%20Jay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each separate slash was another snide remark, another terse retort aimed in his direction, every time since last session that anyone had said something unkind to him (a startlingly large number, the more he thought about it). It was okay though, it was always okay, because he was supposed to be the doormat, he was supposed to be making up for his cruelty in the olden days, and if this is what it took to make his friends--no, his family--happy, then so be it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, I can't even write an angsty vent!fic without a somewhat happy ending. Since this is vent writing, don't expect anything amazing. Characters are subject to slight OOC and spelling/grammatical errors are definitely possible, even if I did read through it a few times. You can interpret the relationship between Denmark and Norway however you'd like, but I purposefully tried to keep it platonic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment, if you liked it (or hated it)!

A razor blade. Blood--too much blood.

He had run out of escape options long ago, and now he had taken the only route left. The searing pain across his skin felt awful, but at the same time, it was so relieving that he could barely hear the bickering below. All complaints of _‘god, if Denmark just got his act together for once, we wouldn’t be in this mess’_ and _‘maybe if that idiot Dane had a brain in his head, he’d be able to get his act together’_ faded, blending with the dull, rhythmic thud of his own pulse drumming in his head. None of them meant it, and he knew that, so the only logical option was to wait until they couldn’t see him and sort out his own stupidity his own, twisted way--not that he cared if it was twisted, so long as it worked. And hell, it certainly worked. For the duration of the foreseeable future, Denmark would no longer be subject to any of the torments of endless stress and perceived isolation and responsibilities unmet, only to the bliss of bold scarlet staining lovely ivory, of lovely red paint spread across a dull, white surface, of his own pent up insecurities oozing out into the open in his own bedroom behind locked doors. Each separate slash was another snide remark, another terse retort aimed in his direction, every time since last session that anyone had said something unkind to him (a startlingly large number, the more he thought about it). It was okay though, it was always okay, because he was _supposed_ to be the doormat, he was _supposed_ to be making up for his cruelty in the olden days, and if this is what it took to make his friends--no, his _family_ \-- happy, then so be it.

Except, this time, something had to go wrong. Of course. That’s how it always worked.

“Danmark? Where are you?”

Something always went awry. He was Denmark, for fuck’s sake! No one of his ‘frighteningly low IQ’ (as Iceland had so aptly put it the other day) could manage nationhood and government responsibilities and a fucking _social life_ without cracking under the pressure every goddamned chance he got. Just yesterday, he’d spent hours working on the _wrong presentation_ for a meeting (here he slashed again). The day before, he’d burned dinner and set of the smoke alarm right before Sweden and Finland showed up at the door (another slash). The day before that, he’d accidentally said something to Norway that the man had found offensive--in retrospect, he hadn’t reacted all too badly, but the stern glare was enough to know that he disapproved (another slash). He couldn’t count a single day he hadn’t screwed up in some way, and he wasn’t even surprised.

“Danmark, come here!”

Without thinking, he swung his fist at the wall, a resounding _smack!_ interrupting his internal monologue, if only for a moment.

Everything went scarily silent.

A few hushed voices from downstairs, nothing he could hear. Then, out of the sea of murmurings, came a louder, “Danmark, we’re coming up!”

No no no no no. He couldn’t right now, not when he was like this, tears streaming down his face and eyes bloodshot and puffy, his lip trembling and his nose bright red. Not when his arm was marred and wounded and covered in blood ( _so much blood he wanted to throw up_ ), not when he was punishing himself for his own wrongdoings.

Not when he couldn’t put on a brave face like the rest of them, pretending he was just fine, just fine, just _fucking great, can’t you tell?_ Not when they could tell just how far gone he really was. Not when the could see what they were doing to him every minute of every day.

What would they say?

What _could_ they say?

His thoughts were interrupted by a fierce knocking on the door, probably Iceland or Finland, given how frantic it sounded.

After a few seconds spent of stunned, agonizing silence in which Denmark had managed to work himself up to a panic _‘what do I say what do I say how do I explain this what do I say’_ , Iceland (or Finland or whoever) ceased his knocking and let out a sigh, as if the one on the other side of the door were also attempting to calm the fuck down.

“Maybe it’s unlocked?” suggested Iceland.

Finland (at least, Denmark assumed it was Finland) tried to turn the handle, but to no avail.

Another stilted silence. Then: “Danmark, what are you doing in there? Are you… are you crying?”

Not Finland, and not Iceland, but Norway.

Norway had been knocking on the door in panic, as if he couldn’t stifle his own emotions enough to seem calm.

This wasn’t normal, and Denmark didn’t like that at all.

He heard Norway growl, and just as Finland was trying to say, “maybe we should come back in a few minutes, Nor, he doesn’t seem to want us right now,” Norway pounded on the door again.

He struck the door three times, then cried, significantly louder, “Danmark, we can’t tell what’s going on from this side! You’ll have to let us in!”

Norway paused for a brief moment in consideration, then added, more calmly, “you can move, right? Can you get to the door?”

Denmark bit his lip, unsure of how to respond (or if he wanted to respond at all). Finally, trying to put on his best bright and happy tone, he said, “I’d really like to alone for a few minutes, thanks.”

No one would buy that for a minute, and Denmark knew it. How could they, when he’d spoken so softly, and through the thick fog of tears and anxiety?

“You know that’s not how it works, Dan,” Sweden interjected, and Denmark could practically hear the man rolling his eyes (though he could also hear the poorly concealed fear behind his voice, which was much scarier).

Iceland had finally reached his breaking point. “We’re fucking worried, okay?! You can’t sit there crying alone in your room like some emo kid and not expect anyone to be fucking scared! Just- just let us in, you bastard, alright?”

Oh. Oh no. No, no, no. Iceland was crying too.

He’d just made Iceland cry.

Well, if Denmark hadn’t felt like shit before, he certainly did now.

“I… fine,” he relented, though he was still shaking his head, and his fists tightened until his knuckles were white. “But only Nor can come in, okay? Everyone else has to go downstairs.”

It was the only way that made any sort of sense to him. Finland was too distant, his relationship with Sweden was too complicated, and Iceland wouldn’t even know how to react to this (he’d probably just cry harder, now that Denmark thought about it).

Norway would at the very least have something, and he wouldn’t overreact. It was just a coping mechanism, after all, he reminded himself as he heard four sets of footsteps make their way downstairs. _Nothing to get worked up about_.

Slowly, hesitantly, Norway knocked again.

This time, Denmark opened the door, making a halfhearted attempt to toss the razor under the bed and put on a black jacket before letting the other man in.

He shut the door behind him as Norway walked over to the bed and sat down atop the white bedspread.

Well, the _mostly_ white bedspread.

Instead of a ‘hello’, or maybe a ‘what the fuck is up and why can’t you tell anyone else????’, Norway bent over the fresh blood stains Denmark had made in his carelessness and said, “you really ought to be more careful, Dan. What did you do to yourself this time?”

God. Well.

“This,” Denmark sighed as he removed the jacket, completely giving up on his facade at this point. If Norway had been reduced to panic upon realizing that Denmark might not be well, then the least Denmark could do is be open about why he’d caused so much turmoil.

Norway didn’t say anything at all when Denmark showed him the marks on his left forearm--he only gasped and stood up abruptly before he made his way over and examined the damage for himself, one hand grasping Denmark’s unscathed upper arm and the other holding the man’s hand.

He must have turned Denmark’s arm over more than five times, blinking in disbelief every time as he tried to come to terms with this. He bit his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, and his brow furrowed in concentration and fear and unrest.

Finally, he let the arm go, and said, “well, I guess that would do it then,” before realizing he’d said that aloud and covering his mouth as his face became very, very pale.

He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute or two, then came back out again with a wet towel, some rubbing alcohol, a roll of gauze, and some medical tape. “God, for a cutter, you sure hide your medical supplies well,” he scathed in his usual monotone. “Almost makes me wonder if you use them at all.”

Denmark winced. The underlying ‘Dan, you better be cleaning those, or I am going to have a conniption’ was never said openly, but it was loud enough to make Denmark’s head hurt nonetheless.

As Norway dressed every single uncountable gash, he muttered little scoldings that were, surprisingly, not aimed at Denmark but himself. “Why the fuck didn’t we catch you doing this earlier?” he’d ask himself as he gently pressed the towel to his arm, cleaning the excess blood off. I see the scars, you must’ve been doing this for years. How could I not figure this out?” He’d apply pressure on a vein to stop the bleeding on a more severe wound and say, “god, to think I got so worked up. I probably just made it worse, fuck, what was I thinking?”

 

As he taped on another piece of gauze, he’d sneer, “I haven’t performed first aid in far too long, this is far too sloppy. Honestly, I should practice this more of-"

“Nor?” Denmark interrupted.

“And look at all the little lumps in the tape. Can’t even tape a straight line, for god’s sake, what’s wrong with me today?”

“Nor.”

And then Norway stared at him, deep blue eyes meeting his in a glare so intense that Denmark had to look away.

“Don’t say a word,” Norway said in earnest. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it together if you start talking to me with that depressed voice again, and lord knows what’ll happen if I start crying.” He tried so hard to sound serene, though they both caught the slight crack in his voice toward the end of his statement.

But Denmark couldn’t possibly keep his words back, not after all this. “Nor, I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Norway broke down, clutching the other man’s shirt as his whole body shook from the force of his own sobs.

“I… told you… not to speak, Dan,” he gasped. “Now look at me. God, sorry, no, wait… It’s not your fault, I just-”

“No, it is my fault. I shouldn’t’ve worried ya, Nor.”

Norway let go of Denmark’s shirt, only to tighten his hands into painfully clenched fists. “You idiot, is that really what you’re worried about? You just… you just fucking sliced your own arm up, stupid. Of course I’m… scared… but you’re missing the point.”

“What point?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” Norway laughed humorlessly as he wiped the tears off his face (it looked like he’d stopped crying, which was a pretty amazing recovery, since he’d only started crying a few moments ago). “You’re hurting yourself. Why?”

“It helps.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Helps?”

Denmark knew the answer to that, the rationale he'd given himself every single time he'd feared that perhaps this really _was_ unhealthy, but the words got blocked by the lump in his throat. When he tried to use the same excuses on Norway, they sounded a lot less logical, and a lot more absurd. “I guess I just needed to cope,” he finally rasped, “and this way… no one else had to know. S’pose I kinda wanted someone to notice or ask or something at least once, but at the same time… I really didn't want to worry you guys. And now I did. I'm sorry.”

“You're still taking yourself in circles,” Norway chided, though without the usual acidity in his tone. “I know it's a coping mechanism. Why do you need to cope?”

Denmark shook his head, lips sealed shut.

Norway saw right through him. “Dan, did _we_ do this to you?”

And, just as Denmark thought they both might finally be done crying, he felt himself collapse into Norway's arms as he broke down again. “God, Norge, I know you didn't mean it! I'm just being stupid. People tease each other all the time, and they get frustrated all the time, so why do all the words stick to me? I can't get them out of my head, and- and-”

Norway rubbed soft, consoling circles in his back. “Shhh, Danmark. Just because we don't mean it, doesn't mean we can't tone it down. Hell, we can stop teasing you entirely if it means you’ll feel better about yourself. It's okay to ask us to knock it off, okay? Even if you know we're joking.”

“This is so stupid. I should know these things. I'm a fucking adult. What's wrong with me?”

“Stop that, nothing is wrong with you. Finland needs reminders like that too sometimes, and he's a perfectly well-adjusted adult. Just ask him. It's perfectly normal.”

“Perfectly normal,” Denmark repeated under his breath.

Norway brushed a hand through Denmark's hair, and then pulled away from him entirely. “Exactly. Now, come on: we can't exactly have a Nordic meeting without the King of the North. We'll talk about this with the others whenever you're ready.”

“No, I guess not,” he replied, and the smirk he flashed Nor was almost as sly and easygoing as usual.

“Go get cleaned up. I'll make you some coffee,” Norway said with a tone of finality, and with a final pat on the back, he left Denmark in peace.

The razor blade made its way to the garbage can. Perhaps it wouldn't stay there forever, but for now, that was where Denmark resolved to put it.


End file.
